I've made it to another day and find that I'm somewhat displeased with the thought of participating in life. But whatever maladjusted mind set that I may have, I refuse to proclaim disengagement from this reality. My choice to keep these thoughts to myself are not a product of my pride, but rather, out of respect for those who've passed. There is no time or place for me to express my discontent, as it comes off as ungrateful. So I continue on, patiently waiting for the day when I will no longer be here.
A further investigation into our dead target lead Lionel and I on an unplanned trip. Now here we are stuck inside this tiny sedan. We drive down the motorway with the windows down as the moist cool air slaps against my face. Lionel is preoccupied with becoming accustomed to driving in this new environment, and I personally enjoy watching him in his frustration. We pass by a busy city park, and watch as people shuffle aimlessly from museum to theater, from concert hall to playground, and so forth. Their pleasure is evident, but as usual their amusement remains mystifying to me.
It's quiet inside the car; apart from the sound of Lionel's rustling burger wrappers. I stare out the window secretly hoping that he will be distracted long enough to get through our ride in silence. I remain solely and somewhat inordinately focused on the crowded park and the incessant activity. Large sculptures stand erect at about twelve feet high, I can't place the era from which they derive, yet I still I focus on them as if I do. The further we travel into the city the deeper I question my motives for being here.
"So, can I ask?" he starts, while crumbling up the wrapper in his hand; "what happened the other night?"
"Which night?" I ask evasively.
"The night you almost died— you know which night," he says.
"You seem to have some hint of what happened, so why don't you tell me," I suggest.
"Harper acts weird whenever I mention your name now," he says, "Did something happen between you two?" he asks, directly.
"More like nothing," I reply. 'Why did I say that?'
"I see—" A cynical expression comes across his face. "— she's not coming back ya know," he says.
"I know," I reply.
"I don't like seeing you like this," he says. "Half the time you're drunk the other half you're just angry."
"I'd hate for you to have to spend your valuable time peeling me off the floor," I say.
"Did I saying anything that wasn't true?" he asked firmly.
"It's not your job to babysit me Lionel."
"No it's not. So start making better choices so I don't have to anymore—" he passes me an unwrapped burger, "— maybe whatever is happening between you and Harper is a good thing."
After some time, we finally pull up to a two-story country home. We step out of the car and immediately draw the attention of two neighboring children playing nearby. Their eyes sparkle with curiosity at the sight of us, and they watch closely as we venture to the porch. I take in the homely atmosphere and am consumed by a feeling of inequity; being here bothers me. But before I can grasp the underlying issue; Lionel knocks on the door without warning.
There's a short wait, then the door casually swings open and my eyes fixate on the thousand-dollar Italian loafers that appear at the threshold. My eyes wander upward to a stodgy pair of pants, followed up with a sweater vest, and thrown over a plain white t-shirt. A mixture of surprise and concern overtakes the proprietor's face. Lionel and I exchange glances at each other,and I can sense we are not wholly welcomed.
"Hey Glasses, long time no see," Lionel starts.
He steps outside the house leaving the door ajar, "Detective Fusco...and Ms. Shaw."
"Good to see you too Harold," I say.
"Why yes, of course it's good to see you both. But I can imagine you didn't come all the way to Paris to exchange pleasantries," he says, while taking care to keep watch on the front door.
"You're right about that," Lionel replies.
"Hey Harold... did we catch you at a bad time?" I ask.
"No," he says, keeping his hand tightly on the door knob. "Grace is inside and I just wasn't expecting you."
"Are we inconveniencing you?" I ask.
Lionel passes a displeased look my way, so I halt any further discourse. "It's the Machine. We have a problem," Lionel tells him.
He invites us into his home; aware that this conversation may be best keep behind closed doors. We step inside the foyer, and my eyes set upon a majestic maple wood staircase cascading from the second floor. To the right, a long hallway that extends to the back of the house and leads into the kitchen. On our left is the living room which appears to lead into the dining area. The living area is designed in the neoclassical style, and is as pretentious as drinking tea with your pinky up.
I expect no less of Harold; but still, it's not what I'd envisioned his life to be. My senses are assaulted by the lavish and abundant trappings. The looming bout of discontent returns to me until my attention is focused to the head of bright red hair making its way down the hall.
"Harold," the woman calls, walking rapidly toward us. Her pace decelerates when she notices us standing in her living room.
He introduces us. "Grace, this is Ms. Shaw and Detective Fusco."
She reaches out to shake my hand. "Harold has told me so much about the both of you," she says.
We greet then she repeats the gesture with Lionel. "So you know about us?" Lionel asks.
"Yes and about the Machine, John and Root—" she pauses awkwardly, "I'm sorry," she says, directing the apology toward me.
"No need to apologize. I don't come equip with the same emotional sensitivities as other people," I tell her.
"Shaw," Lionel grumbles.
"No really...I'm good. Its better if we all move on."
Harold makes a subtle grimace towards me before gesturing us into the living room. We take a seat around the small coffee table centered in the middle of the room. Grace stares at me from the across the table. I hesitate to say anything while in her presence. The air is blanketed in silence as we sit and stare at one another. Our hostess pops up abruptly from her seat, grabbing our attention in her haste.
"I'm going to get us some coffee," she says. A large diamond ring glistens off her ring finger, and I can't help but notice.
"I'll take a whiskey neat if you have it," I request.
"Coffee all around would be lovely," Harold interjects.
"I agree," Lionel adds. Grace makes her way to the foyer then disappears around the staircase. "Are you trying to drink yourself to death," Lionel whispers to me.
"Now tell me… what's happened?" Harold asks.
"The Machine's location may be compromised," Lionel tells him.
"What are you talking about? —" he seems perplexed, "—the Machine is gone," Harold says.
Lionel and I throw a confused look toward each other. "Harold, the Machine isn't gone," I tell him.
He shakes his head defiantly, "That's not possible. I ran millions of simulations. There's no scenario in which the Machine could have survived," he says.
"I don't know what to tell you," Lionel says.
"If the Machine is still active, it should have contacted me. It's a main system directive."
"We have bigger issues than your hurt pride—" I say.
Lionel interrupts, "We don't know where the Machine is and you're the only one who can find out."
"Why don't you just ask the Machine?" Harold asks.
"She hasn't responded to anyone. Not even Harper or the other teams."
"Not even you Ms. Shaw?" Harold inquires.
"Me and the Machine haven't been on the same web page lately," I inform him, "but then again, neither have me and you. So I guess you couldn't have known that."
Grace re-enters the room with a serving tray in hand. She places it down on the table in front of me then falls back into her seat, a generous smile plays across her face. Lionel takes a taste and a delighted squeal erupts from his lips. Her eyes pressure me to try a taste, and I reluctantly take a sip. It's the best cup of coffee I've ever had, and the first cup of coffee I've ever felt the need to show indifference too.
"So what brings you guys to town?" she asks.
"They're here about the Machine— there's some trouble," Harold says. A aura of gloom rounding off the end of his sentence.
"And they need your help," Grace remarks.
"Yes."
"You said that part of your life was over Harold."
He takes her hand. "When I created the Machine I made a choice," he explains, "I knew creating it would mean I would always be tied to it, for better or worse."
"And what about our life?" she asks, "what about what we've built here?"
They lower the tone of their argument into a soft whisper, but the arising conflict is apparent in their posture and mannerisms. Lionel and I watch in silence, and I assert to myself that I will not interfere. But the silence begins to stir my inner resentment. A slight perpetrated by Harold; whether he was conscious of it or not, it did not matter. Even their current exchange of marital discord seems an affront to me.
I suppress my thoughts and words but they slowly begin to smother me. Lionel sits content; unaware that his civility is agitating my desire to dissent from self-control. Their voices are muffled by the blood rushing through my ears and I'm overcome by a throbbing in my forehead. My eyes shut close and I take a deep breath, a last attempt to stifle my quiet rage. But their every word continues to echo in my ears, an annoyance that I can no longer bare.
"Listen lady! —" I shout. All eyes turn to me. "There is no end to this. Not unless you're dead— so either get on board or jump off ship."
"Shaw..." Lionel moans.
"We all know the only way out is a body bag—" I lean toward Grace, "— just like Carter, Root and John."
"That's enough—" Harold hollers, a stern look in his eye. The room falls quiet. "Grace, can you and the Detective excuse us." They uproot from their seats and leave the room; but not before Lionel throws a scrutinizing look my way. Harold and I standoff in the middle of the polished living room, the mahogany table functions as a barrier.
"Now would be a good time to vent any grievances Ms. Shaw."
"What would be the point?" I ask.
"I understand that you may blame me for Ms. Grove's death."
"Root," I whisper, barely audible even to myself.
"I'm sorry—"
"Her name is Root," I repeat.
"—yes, my apologies... I didn't mean—"
"You never do." I begin to pace the floor.
"—if I could bring her back I would," he says, as buries his head into his chest.
"Well you can't," I say bluntly, "and while you're here playing house. The rest of us are stuck in this mess."
"I thought you'd be okay," he says, "I thought this was something that gave you purpose. I thought this is the life you wanted."
"I did…"
"What changed?" he asks.
"I learned the truth," I answer. He seems confused, so I continue, "She didn't have to die," I explain.
"There's was no way anyone could have prevented it," he contends.
"Your machine could have. The Machine told me as much."
"Now why would the Machine admit that?" he asks.
"Because I asked," I tell him. He shakes his head in disbelief. "A former Samaritan Agent revealed it to me, he suggested I look into it." I pace the floor, absorbing the disappointment in Harold's eyes. "Don't know if the guy just wanted to be an ass or if he hoped it would keep me from shooting him," I explain. "He informed me that the Machine knew about the sniper waiting on that roof. And in return for this information, I shot him anyway."
"You believed him?" he asks.
"Of course not," I say defensively, "But then I asked—"
"Why?" he inquires, "why would the Machine let her die?"
"—to save you Harold," I answer. "The Machine knew every probable outcome and made its choice."
